If Yeats, remembering the swans in Irish Twilight, came now, would these grass hills exhilarate His soul; would Bridges, with his treasured thoughts Of Oxford and the Berkshire Downs, be fired, Here by the maize and elms, propitiously; Or Hardy, sitting by this wired fence, Hearing a neighing horse or barking dog -- Would he forget a Cornish tale or Wessex girl A single day, enamoured of a rough But pleasant land? ... Recalling now a night of wind and stars When two black figures, like some etcher's work, Were moving down a road; recalling peace -- Quiet of open spaces, and muffled laughter In Iowa, I fancy Kipling, were He here, could come delighted with a song ... With many songs! |